


Break A Leg

by Unknown



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Arthur is grumpy in the mroning, Cohabitation, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Dreamsharing, Eames loves sweaters and Arthur, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mpreg, Science Mpreg, Slow Build, after inception, mentions of mpreg, they really want a baby?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7962361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is very lucky to have Eames. Lucky enough enough to want to leave dreamsharing behind and maybe start a life all their own. But with no solid reason to leave (and no solid proof that Eames feels the same way), what's the point?</p><p>And then, of course, comes Jack Kingsley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break A Leg

**Author's Note:**

> I WROTE THIS SO LONG AGO. It could be longer, I ended it somewhere nice and chill so that if I want to continue I can and if not, then it's not necessary. Inceptiversary came and went and I spaced this out too, haha. So let's pretend I posted this in time, yeah? 
> 
> Originally called What To Expect When Unexpectedly Expecting. But that was hella long and I didn't end up writing the expecting part. So! It got switched to Break A Leg, after the common theatre and performance phrase to wish people luck without invoking the word 'luck' so as not to attract bad luck. It's actually to repel it! Fun fact: the belief is that saying break a leg will lead bad luck astray by making the bad luck think that something bad already happened, therefore, it'll avoid the person you're wishing it on. Then, there's only room for good luck! 
> 
> There's some allusions to luck in this fic, okay? That's the only excuse I've got. 
> 
> Ok. Enjoy.

1.

It starts with Yusef being unavailable as their chemist an ends with Cobb hiring some scientist guy on the job. His name is Jack Kingsley, and he’s not actually a chemist, but he knows enough to get them through on the job. Arthur doesn’t trust him, not really, but Eames accepts him into their group with the easy camaraderie only he has and Arthur feels infinitely better.

Yeah. About that. Arthur hated Eames until he had realized over two years ago on their first inception job that he’d accidentally mistaken his attraction for hate and was actually falling fast for the British asshole. So. Although he tries not to show it, Arthur is pretty sure it shines through anyway. Especially when this job goes pear-shaped.

The mark isn’t militarized, that much is obvious, but she’s deadly. A natural, in her own right, her subconscious rips them apart. Since they’re only one level down, they’ll wake up if they die, but when Arthur is faced with a gun, his stomach drops. He’s actually _needed_ down here, has the most important job in the operation. Without it him, it goes _poof_ , and they lose their chance.

Eames is yelling somewhere in the background behind the projection, and Arthur spares a moment to think that at least Eames cares, a bit, though probably more about losing the job than about losing Arthur.

Suddenly, Arthur is being pushed away, and Jack’s the one getting shot in the head. Arthur spares a moment to be surprised before hopping into gear and finishing the job. When they all wake up, Jack is manning the PASIV and gives Arthur a pleasant smile. Arthur waits until everyone’s gone over what they need to with Jack, and then goes up to him.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, shaking the man’s hand, his opinion on Jack solidly changed. “Honestly, you saved the entire operation back there. I owe you one.”

“Your boyfriend thanked me enough for saving you,” Jack says with an amused smile.

Arthur feels a surge of complete embarrassment at his transparency before he chokes out, “Who, Eames? He’s not, I’m mean – we’re not…”

“Don’t tell him then,” Jack says with a smile, the way he speaks to Arthur reminds him of a father-figure of sorts. “He seemed pretty protective of you and knew you’d be disappointed in yourself if you fucked up the job.”

Arthur blinks, a bit astounded. “I would have been.”

“He also mentioned that he’d be the one cleaning your drunken ass up afterward,” Jack continues with a suggestive eyebrow lift.

At this, Arthur flushed and clears his throat. “Also true,” he admits, because his and Eames’ relationship had evolved into _something_ , he just didn’t know what.

“Uh-huh,” Jack says, still dubious and disbelieving. “I’ll call you up,” he says. “Since you owe me one.”

“Definitely,” Arthur says, glad for the subject change. “Anything you need, I’m your man.” Jack nods and leaves after that, and Arthur meets Eames at the door.

“Take-away or sit-in?” Eames asks him. It’s become a tradition of theirs; whichever of them has an apartment nearby, they’ll either eat then go there or order-in and crash there, one of them taking the couch. On one memorable occasion, Eames’ place hadn’t had a couch and they’d shared a bed. That had been the night Arthur had really accepted the fact that he wanted every bit of Eames and that, most likely, he’d never get.

“I kind of want to die of exhaustion. You got a place around here so we can order in?” Arthur asks. They’re in Sydney, their bank accounts just got a little fatter, and there is _no way in hell_ that Arthur is going to sit in a restaurant and risk falling asleep into his food in public. At least, if he’s crashed at Eames’ place or a hotel, he can fall into his food in peace and Eames will only tease him about it _after_ he’s cleaned Arthur up.

“Yeah, you up for a drive? It’s in Darwin, darling,” Eames says, his voice going gentle. Arthur wants to scream, and lets his head hang, Eames pressing a large, warm hand to his lower back.

“Depends,” he groans. “Do I get the bed?”

Eames laughs. “If you want to share it, sure. It’s a loft-type place. One room. Not much space for a couch, but if you really want to sleep alone, I can attempt a pillow fort.”

Arthur would be lying if he said that sleeping with Eames had sounded like a deterrent. Instead, he says, “I never mind sharing with you,” because he’s tired and he doesn’t have a brain to mouth filter when he’s tired. And he really _doesn’t_ mind sharing. Not with Eames.

“You used to,” Eames says carefully, like he’s treading dangerous ground and feels like he needs to be careful.

“Yeah, but I realized you’re not that bad to sleep with,” Arthur says drowsily.

Eames gives a shaky chuckle and says, “Don’t flatter me before you’ve _really_ had me, darling,” he teases.

The moment is gone. Good old Eames, Arthur thinks. Beautiful, flawed, surprising Eames. Arthur doesn’t know how much longer he can stop himself from making a move.

“Shut up, Eames,” Arthur finally says. “Take me home.” He hasn’t realized what exactly he’s said until Eames starts to hum, then sing, driving them off to a highway.

“Home, I’m going home. Home is wherever I’m with you…”

* * *

 

2.

Arthur slowly starts to hate the job. The rush is gone. He’s sick of dreamless nights. The horrible realization that he doesn’t have a real _home_ hits him hard one day when he realizes he’s left his favorite tie in a different apartment.

It’s frustrating, it’s depressing. The only upside is the money, which is slowly not becoming worth it, and seeing Eames. Of course, the latter doesn’t count if he doesn’t work with Eames, but lately, they’ve been coordinating their jobs with each other. It’s convenient for whoever they seem to be working with, but it’s also convenient for them, or so Arthur tries to convince himself. It’s easier being able to room with someone, to have someone you can depend on.

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s been depending on Eames for years.

The point is, it’s getting tiring. He’s got enough money in his American bank account alone to retire and live comfortably, never mind the other ones scattered across the world. For a while, he feels utterly alone in his feels for the hob. He stays because there’s nothing else he can _do_. And then it’s a few hours after a messy job and he and Eames are lounging on a hotel room couch, watch Days of our Live. And Eames stares at the television and says,

“It’s lost its appeal.”

“We can turn if off you know,” Arthur says in confusion, reaching over to grab the remote. But Eames takes his hand, stopping him, _and he doesn’t let go._

“The job, Arthur,” Eames clarifies. Arthur sees the sincerity in his eyes and slowly nods, obscenely grateful that someone’s been feeling the same way and that that someone happens to be _Eames_.

“What are we supposed to do about it?” Arthur says quietly, then feels his face flush when he realizes he’s said _we_ , like they’re a team or something. But they are in a way, and by the way that Eames tightens his grip on Arthur’s hand and doesn’t contest him, he knows it too.

“We keep going until we find a solid reason to leave,” he says quietly. “I just had to-”

“Say something, yeah. I know. Me too,” Arthur says. He gives Eames’ hand a squeeze, then slowly, reluctantly, let’s go.

They stay sitting close for the rest of the episode and when they head to bed, Arthur feels wrong sleeping alone.

* * *

 

3.

Arthur gets stabbed. And it’s not in a dream. Their mark had been smarter than he looked, but he’d only been able to pull Arthur out of a crowd. So he’d gone after him.

It’s a mess, even by Arthur’s standards. There’s blood everywhere, his shirt and suit are ruined, and – well, there goes his tie as Eames bunches it up in his shockingly steady hands and presses it to the dep gash in Arthur’s leg, his voice the only thing that’s shaking as he calls an ambulance in Italian, his accent flawless.

“You speak Italian?” Arthur says, short of breath and seeing spots. It had got him right at an artery, as he’d been climbing to get away from the mark’s scimitar-thing. Who even has those anymore, Arthur wonders? Eames stares at him for a moment and then touches his face with a bloody hand, smudging Arthur’s deathly pale cheeks with red, the crimson standing out starkly on his sallow skin.

“Don’t die,” Eames says, sounding worried and scared, and something else that Arthur can’t identify, but it makes the feeling in his heart sing. “You _can’t_ die.”

“Why, you’ll have no one to room with?” Arthur says, sure that it’s the inconvenience his death poses to Eames that’s the actual problem. Arthur has zero self-esteem despite all of his elaborate posturing.

“No, you bloody idiot. Because I can’t do this without you, and I – I – ” Eames looks lost for a second, as if he’s unsure if he should be saying anything at all. “I’m going to miss you,” he goes with.

Arthur laughs at that then, because the pain is just too much and he can hear an ambulance coming down the tight, narrow streets. “I _always_ miss you, Eames,” he admits dazedly, regardless of the consequences.  Things get fuzzy, and the next time Arthur is conscious, he’s in a sterile bed at a foreign hospital with Eames watching some sort of soap opera in a chair beside him. Arthur hadn’t been expecting that. Or maybe he had and just couldn’t admit it to himself.

“I miss you too, you know,” Eames says without looking away from the screen. “When your gone for too long, on occasion.”

Arthur groans. Eames laughs. “I thought I was _dying_ ,” Arthur whines. “Give me a break.”

“You thought you were dying and the first thing that came to mind was to tell me you miss me?” Eames says, his voice half joking and half… something else. Arthur is getting frustrated with it.

“Among other things,” Arthur murmurs. Eames leans in, getting closer, and Arthur tries not to swallow too audibly. 

“What other things?” Eames asks.

“I guess you’ll have to stick around to find out,” Arthur teases, trying to ease the tension.

“Oh, I thought that was a given, darling?” Eames says, leaning back, a flash of disappointment on his face. Arthur doesn’t respond. Later that night, as he drifts into a medicated sleep, Arthur wonders if he imagines those thick, chapped lips pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

* * *

 

4.

It’s not a vacation, it’s… okay, it’s probably a vacation, but he’s ignoring Ariadne’s looks and Yusef’s dirty jokes in favor of relaxing. After his injury, Eames had whisked him away to a cottage in Wales to recover. It’s nice, is the problem. Even more of a problem is that Eames is the perfect host, the sweetest friend and – mistaken by everyone in the little town they’re in – a doting partner. Arthur only gets to correct them once before he realizes people are going to keep making the assumption about them, so there’s no point in mass correction. Also, maybe he doesn’t _want_ to correct them.

“You’re such a sweet man,” an old woman says, patting Eames’ face as he holds a bakery door open for her. She looks to where he’s holding Arthur’s crutches to let Arthur stand up. “You’re lucky,” she tells Arthur. As if he doesn’t know.

“I am,” Arthur replies, meaning every word.  Eames shoots him a smile and hands him his crutches, keeping the door propped open for them.

“Lucky are you?” he teases. Arthur trolls his eyes as he goes out, Eames following behind, a gentle hand on Arthur’s lower back.

“Yes,” Arthur says back, sugar-sweet. Then he laughs. “So many people assume it. What else can I do short of wearing a sign on my forehead?”

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” Eames says softly, helping him down the short steps..

“Wearing a sign?” Arthur laughs. “No, that’s the worst.”

Eames snorts and corrects him gently, “No, not that, although I do think you’d look lovely with a sign. Though it might cover up your pretty face.” He pauses. “No, I meant… being lucky. With me. In that way. Wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

Arthur trips in surprise, and Eames catches him with a strong grip on the elbow. “I…” Arthur trails off. He tries not to flush. “No. Wouldn’t be so bad.” He stops. “But I am lucky. With you.”

“Yes,” Eames says with a sunny smile. “I do believe you are.:

“How conceited – _not_ that I’m surprised, Mr. Eames,” Arthur grunts in mild annoyance.

“Oh, but Arthur,” Eames continues fluidly. “You must understand: I am also so very lucky. With _you_.”

And Arthur, well, he can’t be blamed if he gets a little tongue-tied at that.

* * *

 

5.

They go back to working jobs and at some point, Arthur wants to just scream and run away. He’s tired, exhausted, really, irritated, and so over the fad that had once been dream-sharing. The world isn’t over it though, and he’s the best at what he does, so there’s nothing for him to do but _do it._

“You look bloody awful,” Eames comments. Arthur hasn’t seen him since they returned to the US from their holiday, and that was weeks ago. Arthur might cry at the sight of his beautiful, familiar face showing up at his hotel room out of the blue.

“Please tell me you’re working this job,” Arthur moans, maybe even begs.

“Of course I’m working this job, darling,” Eames says with a furrow of his brow. “ _You’re_ here.”

“I think I might be in with love you,” Arthur says softly, honestly, completely terrified but also at peace with what’s happened to him.

Eames laughs it off though, takes it as the joke it isn’t meant to be, and says, “Doesn’t everyone?” He slaps Arthur on the back, throwing his arm around the other man’s shoulders afterwards. “Now, let’s go see what these bastards want with our wonderful talents.”

It should be simple, the job, but their extractor is an idiot and pulls a stunt that almost get Eames tossed into Limbo. When they all make it out, Arthur rips the line to the PASIV out of his arm and punches the smarmy ass in the face.

“I’m going to have you black-listed in the dream-share community so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he snarls, shaking out his hand for another punch. Eames holds him back by the arm as the man reels in shock. “It’s not your job to get your team _killed._ ”

“Arthur, leave it. Let’s go,” Eames says softly.

“I could fucking _end_ you,” Arthur says as he walks away. They have their money, and he has Eames, so it’ll do for now.

“What was all that about, darling?” Eames asks, once they’re outside. Arthur has already sent out the burn on their idiot extractor, at least to all the important people in the business.

“Your brain was almost scrambled egg,” Arthur spits in surprise. “I’m not supposed to be mad about that? And anyway, that asshole is a danger to everyone around him. I’m doing us all a favor.” Arthur slams the car door as he gets in, Eames a lot quieter as he enters and starts the car.

“Well, I’m fine,” says Eames. “Thank you for caring a bit. Makes one feel fuzzy inside.” He doesn’t look at Arthur and his tone doesn’t match the levity of his words.

“Of course I care, Eames. I’m not the heartless little robot in a suit everyone thinks I am,” Arthur snaps, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. I just – Yeah.”

“Why are you so wound up, darling?” Eames says, hesitation heavy in his voice.

“I don’t like it when you’re threatened,” Arthur admits glumly.

Eames finally smiles. “Why’s that I wonder?”

“ _Because_ ,” Arthur insists. “Just – because. Because I said so.” And maybe Arthur _is_ blushing now.

“Because you said so?” Eames teases. “Oh, I am so very lucky to have you, Arthur.”

And they leave it at that.

 

* * *

6.

“Am I above murder?” Arthur asks one weekend morning that he actually has free, when he’s woken up far too early by the bright sun and wonders if maybe he _can_ kill the bright light shining in his face. He’s holed up in some quiet bed and breakfast with Eames, waiting for their last job to blow over.

“I should like to think so,” Eames says absent-mindedly from the kitchenette table, not looking up from his morning paper. Arthur groans and Eames looks up, giving him a startled laugh.

“What?” Arthur asks. He feels around his face, his hands making their way to his hair. The usually tidy, slicked back locks are wild and out of place. Arthur groans again.

“It’s adorable, really,” Eames chuckles. Arthur flops back down backwards onto the bed. He pulls the covers over his head, cocooning himself and burying himself under them all. He groans again for good measure. There’s a hand on his back that Arthur can feel through the blanket, the heat radiating out and into his skin. HE swallows hard as Eames uncovers him, a barley contained smile on his face.

“Come on, you,” he says with a gentle laugh. “If you get out now, I promise to feed you sooner rather than later.”

“ _No_ ,” Arthur insists. “It’s cold and I’m comfortable in here.”

“Then I’ll lend you a sweater,” Eames says, as though it’s the most obvious conclusion to come to. And Arthur, well, who is he to say no to that? He groans for the umpteenth time and Eames must know he’s won because he lets out a shout of glee and uncovers Arthur, sitting him up. Eames bundles Arthur into a t-shirt and one of Eames’ own sweaters, some thick, ugly-patterned monstrosity. He tugs jeans up Arthur’s legs, his fingers brushing Arthur’s belly as he buttons them, then pulls the sweater down over them. “You are positively useless in the morning,” Eames observes with delight.

“You already know this,” Arthur grumps as Eames runs his clever fingers through Arthur’s hair, attempting to straighten it out.

“That I do,” Eames agrees. He takes Arthur by the hand then, helps him slide into some shoes, and whisks him away for the promised food.

At breakfast, they sit side by side in a back-booth, food, coffee, and tea in front of them. Arthur slumps back, still tired, and doesn’t even fight it when he feels Eames’ unobtrusive hand on the back of his neck, gently guiding him to Eames’ shoulder. Arthur shifts, getting comfortable as Eames’ arm rests around his shoulders.

“What are we even doing?” Arthur murmurs.

“Having breakfast,” Eames says while sipping at his tea.

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur insists in distress. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then I don’t have an answer for you,” Eames responds. “Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” Arthur sighs. “For now.”

* * *

 

7.

“Job in Malta,” Arthur says, going through the details on the kitchen table. “They need a point-man _and_ a forger.”

“Good offer?” Eames asks where he’s cooking on the stove. It smells amazing, and Arthur takes a deep breath in of the scent before telling him how much is on offer. Eames whistles. “I’d say yes”

“Mmm, me too. We leave Friday then.” They are in a small apartment, it in the middle of only Eames-knows-where. It’s comfortable. It’s _natural_. Arthur likes it, but doesn’t know how to say that so he tries to show it instead and realizes he’s not so great at that either. He’s frustrated most of the time, but when they’re like this, relaxed and domestic, he realizes why it’s all worth the struggle.

“That settles that, then,” Eames quips and a few minutes later, he’s setting the table around Arthur and his paperwork, Arthur squawking out an apology as he rushes to help. “Oh, it’s fine, love,” Eames assures him, but Arthur insists, their hands brushing as they exchange dishware. Eames hip-checks him as they part from the counter to go to their seats.

Eames smiles at him as he serves up the food, passing Arthur a full plate. His eyes are warm, his mouth stretched into a smile, and Arthur’s hand stops halfway to his mouth to soak in that beautiful look in awe. Eames, however, is talking, a constant stream of thought pouring out of his mouth around his food, and it should be _disgusting_ except for the fact that it’s really not.

“…are you even listening to me?” Eames asks snapping in front Arthur’s eyes to grab his attention. “Or, oh goodness, did I not cook this all the way through?” he wonders with a hint of dismay in tone.

“No!” Arthur exclaims, stuffing his face at the same moment. “No, it’s great, really.” It is. Either that, or, Arthur’s penchant for burning meals is shining through, as he’s gotten used to _charred_ as a flavor.

“You looked a bit caught up in something there,” Eames admits, going back to his food.

“I was,” Arthur says, looking down at his plate and shoving food into his mouth.

“Yeah, and what was that?" is Eames’ innocent, nonchalant question.

“I was… caught up in you,” comes his weak reply. Eames head shoots up in surprise, and Arthur knows his face must be fire-truck red.

“Now, now darling. Don’t be saying things you don’t mean,” Eames says shakily. His grin has turned unsure and is slowly melting away.

“I mean it,” Arthur says forcefully. “So. I’ll say it. I was caught up in _you_.”

Eames’ silence is worrying at first until he clears his throat and that stupid smile on his face. Arthur has never felt more relieved in his life. Eames' fingers start to tap incessantly on the table, dancing around the small surface. Arthur can feel his feet tapping excitedly under the table, their knees brushing with the nervous movement.

“Well, this…” He trails off. “This is _nice_.” He reminds Arthur of an excited, floppy dog. He’s still tapping and it drives Arthur crazy. He reaches out the short distance and covers Eames’ hand with his own, squeezing gently to stop the tapping. Eames looks so fragile, the smile dropping off like a shade put on a light.

“This _is_ nice,” Arthur says in response. He rubs his thumb soothingly over Eames’ skin. He swallows hard, a gulping sound coming from his throat.  It startles a chuckle out of Eames, who turns his hand over under Arthurs’s, gripping the other man’s fingers with his own.

“Would you look at that,” Eames says, still chuckling. Arthur smiles, cheeks dimpling.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. They eat dinner like that, talking about the job they are taking. Arthur likes that – no, he _loves_ it.  Loves that _they_ are talking a job, not just him, not just Eames, but _they_ , together. There is a unity there.

That night, he tosses and turns, alone in his single bed. He finally makes his way to the small living room. He finds Eames on the couch reading a book, glasses perched on the end of his nose. It’s kind of hot, if he’s being honest with himself; those glasses paired with his bed-head hair, scruffy beard, and book are definitely working for Arthur.

“Hello, love. A bit early, innit?” Eames comments as Arthur walks over. Arthur settles beside Eames, leaning up against him as Eames tucks an arm around him.

“Couldn’t sleep,“ Arthur mumbles into Eames’ sweater-clad shoulder.

“Oh, and you think camping out over here is going to help?” he asks with a jovial lilt to his voice.

“Well, yeah,” Arthur murmurs sleepily. “ _You’re_ out here.” He doesn’t see the soft look on Eames’ face as he drifts off into sleep, but it’s still there. When Arthur wakes up in the morning, he’s in bed pressed against something soft and warm. Looking up, he sees Eames’ sleeping face, creased red on one side from the wrinkled pillow he is on. Arthur’s heart swells almost painfully at the sight.

Arthur lays back down, head pillowed on Eames’ chest. This is where he belongs, past dream sharing, past the job, and the danger. Right by Eames’ side, Eames by his.

And, oddly enough, it seems that Eames feels that way too.

* * *

 8.

Arthur is unashamed to admit that he had completely forgotten he owed Kingsley when the man calls up to cash in his favor. Regardless, the man is quite vague about his request.

“Do you know what I do for a living?” Jack asks him.

“No?” Arthur admits. He’s spaced out looking into Kingsley’s background. In his defense, Eames is a great distraction.

“I’m a doctor,” he says. “Specializing in endocrinology and sex organs. My current project is on the human sex cells and the evolution of human reproduction.”

“What do you need _me_ for?” Arthur asks.

“Well,” Jack starts. “I’ve been having a bit of difficulty looking for a test subject…”

_

“I have to do a favor for someone,” Arthur tells Eames that night.

“Interesting. Where are we headed?”

And now Arthur has to swallow down the regret as he says, “I have to go alone.” That had been Jack’s suggestion, at least. Eames freezes in shock, dropping to the couch next to him. His face is a mixture of concern and dread. “I’m not… this has nothing to do with you or … us. Whatever we are. It’s literally a favor.” Arthur softens his tone. “No one’s going to steal me away.”

“You’re not mine to be stolen from,” Eames says, voice shaky and unsure.

“Yes, I am,” Arthur replies with a soft smile. “And it’s Jack Kingsley. I promise, I’ll be fine. And if I need you, I’ll call. How’s that?”

Eames blinks at him with wide eyes. “What _are_ we?”

Arthur shrugs. “When I get back, do wanna find out?”

_

“So, before you stick me with anything, what exactly is it that you need me for?” Arthur asks. He’s always one to cover his bases, after all.

“I think this packet will sufficiently explain things,” Jack responds. It’s only a few pages long and Arthur reads through them quite quickly. But by the end, his mouth is open in shock, and maybe a bit of awe

“You want to get me pregnant,” Arthur says bluntly. “This is fringe science.”

“This is _biology_ ,” Jack insists, sounding a bit miffed. “I know this is a large favor but… You said anything." Arthur is still largely unconvinced. “You won’t be _alone_ ,” Jack continues.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, really,” Jack says. “Look, this is all based on the frog reproduction process. Frogs are natural, biological hermaphrodites: they can impregnate and be impregnated. But they can’t do it to themselves.”

“So you want to turn my insides into a frog’s insides?” Arthur asks in distaste.

“Not biologically frog tissue, just the same set up and system,” Jack explains. “And that wasn’t the point of that explanation.”

“Then what was?”

“You’ll have to choose a father,” Jack says. All the wind gets knocked out of Arthur. Jack stops, corrects himself. “Or rather, I guess, the _other_ father.”

And then Arthur doesn’t know what’s happening, but he’s agreeing because _this is it._ His solid way out of the business that involves _Eames_. He’ll just have to make sure Eames wants him, but haven’t things been leading up to something like that?

“There’s a 48-hour period of extreme pain, as your organs are going to be switching about after I inject you with the experimental serum. You’ll have a 24-hour fertile window to try for. If it doesn’t work, we need to wait 12 months for your body to reset and – are you listening?”

“Yes, I understand the risks. Now, let’s _do_ this.”

* * *

 9.

The first day is the worst of Arthur’s life. He had been a bit nervous to get the injection, but Jack had been kind and fatherly, the hesitation disappearing. He clings to that as he curls up in pain, his abdomen on fire as he feels things move inside of him. He stays with Jack, using his guest bedroom.

Amid the feverish pain and sweat, Arthur wonders if he made the right decision. But then he thinks about Eames and how they could get out of this together with… well, a little human being made from the both of them. A family. Arthur’s heart always skips a beat at that thought. He's never had a real family. He wants one. With Eames.

The second day isn’t _as_ bad, cramping and discomfort being the specials of the day. It’s still terrible.

“What _is_ this?” Arthur groans.

“Your new organs are going through a hyper-menstrual session. By the end of the day, your fertile window will be open and going strong. But, like everything else, only for a short amount of time. 24 hours, and it’ll dwindle fast.”

“Women go through this _every_ month for _several_ days?” Arthur says, horrified.

“For about 35 years, yes,” Jack replies.

“Who the _hell_ thought men were stronger?” Arthur gripes, snuggling back into his blankets.

“I don’t know,” Jack admits, handing him hot-cocoa and salt & vinegar chips. “But whoever he was, one thing’s for sure: he was a fucking _idiot_.”

_

A few hours later and Jack is nodding at his watch. “One hour until go-time. Please tell me you’ve got someone in mind or else, prepare to be surprised when I proposition you.”

“You really want this to work, don’t you?”

“It’s my life’s work,” Jack admits. “Of course I do.”

“I have someone,” Arthur assures him. Well, he thinks he does. He _hopes_ he does, he’s risking everything for this.

“…can I ask a personal question?” Jack inquires as he walks Arthur out to his car.

“You just gave me the ability to bear children and helped me through my messy transition into menstruation. I’m pretty sure you can ask me anything, personal or otherwise,” Arthur says coolly.

“Alright, then. Is it Eames? The other father, I mean.” Arthur blanches a bit, feels his face go red and is eternally grateful that its already dark out so Jack would be unable to see it.

“Am I that obvious?” he whispers. Jack beams him a smile, patting him on the back as Arthur gets into the car.

“Don’t worry,” Jack says. “If it makes you feel any better, he is too.”

* * *

 

10.

Twenty minutes later, Arthur finds himself back at the little apartment he and Eames have been holed up in. He’s suddenly nervous, but he’s only got about forty minutes to explain to Eames and hope he says yes. Arthur _wants_ this unlike anything he has ever wanted in his entire life. Maybe his entire existence.

He opens the door, silently walking in and closing it behind him. Arthur finds Eames sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through papers, paying a few bills, it seems, with their never-ending bank accounts. He looks up when Arthur walks in, surprise consuming his features. A smile breaks out on his lips as well. Arthur feels as though he is going to vomit, and he’s not even pregnant yet.

“Darling,” Eames exclaims, whipping off his glasses and pushing papers aside. “I didn’t hear you come in. Hell,” he conceded. “I didn’t even know you were back.” He pauses, appraising Arthur, face falling into a frown. “Are you alright? What happened? You look ill.” Bluntness, Arthur supposes, is the best way to go about this. He had, after all, 35 minutes and counting.

“Kingsley wanted to get me pregnant.” Eames blinks at Arthur’s words in shock.

“So, not only is he a mad scientist, but he’s also a homewrecker,” Eames jokes, looking uneasy.

“I should rephrase that,” Arthur says, trying to hide the involuntary tremor in his voice. “Kingsley wants me _to get_ pregnant.”

“That’s impossible,” Eames says with a laugh. Arthur’s chest clenches, but he stands with a straight face as Eames’ laugh slows and he realizes that Arthur is completely and deadly serious. “What did that bastard _do_ to you?” Eames snarls protectively, pushing his chair back with a bang and rambling over to Arthur. Arthur patiently lets Eames tear his shirt open to check his abdomen, pat him down for any other signs of cruelty, and then he takes the man’s worried hands and stops them. Arthur carefully sheds his suit jacket, then uncuffs his sleeve, and rolls it up, revealing his gauze-taped inner-elbow. Eames frowns in confusion and… is that hope?

Thirty minutes and counting.

“Long story short,” Arthur says, ever efficient. “He made a serum. He injected it into me. In the next, oh, twenty to thirty minutes, my biological fertility clock is going to be going strong for 24 hours. His theory? With the changes the serum has made, I should be able to conceive if…” And now he falters. Eames stares at him. Arthur can’t do it. “I’m sorry, this was a mistake,” Arthur whispers. He’s asking too much of Eames, for him to throw his life away for Arthur and a child that may or may not actually be a thing. How could he?

“What?” Eames asks, adamant. “If what?”

“Look… I can’t ask you to – to do this. I just… I _wanted this_ ,” Arthur admits. He can’t look Eames in the eyes as he does. He’s not one to admit to what he wants, always cool and collected and doing what’s efficient and best for the situation. This is neither of those things. “I wanted it with you. But I’m realizing how stupid and presumptuous I’ve been, wanting you to give everything up, not just _with_ me but…”

“ _For_ you,” Eames finishes, making Arthur’s head snap up in shock. “Give it up, not just _with_ you, but _for_ you, _yes_. I will. I would,” Eames continues passionately. “If you asked me, Arthur, I would do most _anything_ for you.” There’s an excitement in his eyes, his voice, his whole demeanor, like he can’t contain himself in his own skin.

Arthur cannot breathe, but 20 minutes and counting doesn’t leave much time for allotted breathlessness.

“I’m asking you… to…” Arthur stalls, still unsure and a bit shaken by everything.

“You want me to make love to you,” Eames butts in, never one to be patient and wait it out. Arthur’s legs feel like jelly at the phrase. “You want me to put a baby in you and run away with you.” Well, when he puts it like _that._

“… it might not work,” Arthur says and hates the thought with all of his being. His hands tighten in Eames shirt and he’s looking down again. “My body would have to reset for 12 months-”

“Then we’d try again,” Eames cuts in. Arthur tries not to gape and knows he fails.

“You’d want to try again?” he asks, trying not to give it all away, to show just how much that means to him.

“Wouldn’t you?” Eames whispers back, tilting Arthur’s chin up so that their eyes meet.

And Arthur hadn’t been sure at the beginning but now… “Yes,” he chokes out. “With you,” he clarifies, as if it’s needed.

“Of course with me, darling,” Eames says with an excited smile. “And now, the only question that remains is _why_ me?”

Arthur should have seen this coming.

“It’s you because… you’ve always been there, you know me, I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He stops the rush of words, tries to gain control of himself like always and then realizes that of all times for control, this isn’t one of them. He lets the spontaneity go. “And I… God, Eames. _I’m in love with you_ , okay?” The catch in Eames’ breath is worth the burning embarrassment Arthur feels at saying such naked, honest words out in the open. “I’m done with this life, I want one _with you_ , _without_ being afraid a job went wrong or that one of us _won’t_ wake up. And I – I wasn’t _sure_ but I am _now_ , I want a kid with your nose and your eyes, your bad attitude and _everything_ … and – and -” He’s run out of words to say. But that’s okay, Eames silences him with a kiss. And it’s such a relief, in all honesty, because Arthur’s bio timer is going to go off in 10 minutes and in this moment, he has everything he could ever want.

“Like I would ever say no to you, love. Like I ever could,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s mouth. “You’re arse over tits for me and I’m – well, I’m a little bit over the moon for you.” His hands are warm, big, and gentle as he slips them under Arthur’s shirt and presses them against Arthur’s stomach. It gives Arthur butterflies, makes the backs of his knees tingle. “So, to get back to the subject, in the next few minutes, I’ve got a chance at putting a baby in you?”

“For the next 24 hours, yeah,” Arthur says, feeling his ears heat. He only blushes harder when Eames brushes gentle kisses against his hot skin.

“So we’re going to do this,” Eames says. “And … if it works?” So hopeful, Eames’ tone is so, so hopeful. He wants this just as bad as Arthur does.

“If it works, we retire. We’re done. We find somewhere quiet to go and we _live_. We have enough money between the both of us to live comfortably for the rest our lives, twice over. And if it doesn’t-”

“We try again,” Eames promises, lips against Arthur’s temple. “We’ll stay out and we’ll try again.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees, voice barely a whisper. “I’d like that.” He throws a look at the clock on the wall closest to them. “And my fertile window is officially open,” he announces, letting out a shaking laugh.

“We can get started? I have permission to make sweet, passionate love to you?” Eames says with a smile that makes Arthur’s heart thud in his chest.

“Yes,” Arthur hisses, to try and cover it up. “Yes, you British teapot.”

“Teapot?” Eames exclaims, backing Arthur up into the bedroom that’s only a hallway away from the kitchen.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to insult you too terribly after you’ve made me so happy,” Arthur says as the backs of his knees hit the bed and he goes sprawling, still mostly clothed. Eames slows, a cautiously happy smile on his face. God, but they’re smitten with each other, aren’t they?

“And… you are? _Happy_ , that is?” Eames asks with a hint of uncertainty, even through the smile.

“Yeah, Eames,” Arthur says, tone soft, doing the comforting this time instead of being comforted. “I’m happy. _You’ve_ made me happy. You _make_ me happy.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” Eames admits, brushing his nose against Arthur’s. “I just want to make you happy.” And Arthur wonders if they were always meant to be together like this, if it just took a little time to know what they wanted and to be sure. If this was always going to be the result, Arthur would have waited as long as it took. This, Eames, was worth it.

“I’d be _happier_ if you got down to it,” Arthur teases to save face. He lets out a yelp as Eames lifts an eyebrow and starts to shimmy out of his clothes, right there, revealing tattoos, scars, and hard muscle. That man right there, that’s the father of his future child, sliding off his underwear and then going for Arthur’s clothes with wild abandon, all the while muttering dirty things in Arthur’s ear that’ll make him come sooner rather than later.

Yes, Arthur thinks to himself, he is so damned _lucky_ to have Eames.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted Jack Kingsley to be fatherly, not creepy. Lemme know if I succeeded. I kinda think of like, the guy who plays Jora in Game of Thrones. But like, not hitting on the Kahleesi kind of Jora, the Jora he was before anyone knew he was lowkey hitting on her. 
> 
> The song Eames sings in Part 1 is Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. 
> 
> Also, I have no idea about the frog thing? But I read it somewhere and I'm too lazy to go looking. I just wanted to try science-explained mpreg because it's cool and Mr. Mom cracks me up every time. I mean, who wouldn't crack up at Arnold Schwarzenegger being pregnant?


End file.
